Masochists

Our parts are burried
In self-made pits
We revisit in peril.

To purge them, beginning,
Would toil us too much,
Too viable to carry.

We must be sent, treading mountains,
To tend to callouses
Self-rooted  in the dirt.

We retrieve them
From earth to vent,
Then tuck them back to fester.

Our masochism feeds us.
The afterglow of agony
Is euphoria.

My buckle was tightened,
My hair pulled back.
The counting lowered
To a slower track.
It spit,
It moaned,
Then took off towards the sun,
Bringing me unknowingly
To Florence's most gifted son.


Haphazardly it crashed,
By a tree with a sputter,
And a poor startled child
Who gave a choke and a stutter.
My blood rose,
I crawled out,
In robes that were so
Immaculately made
Like a goddess would sew.


So I journeyed with grace
Across the sun kissed land,
Towards a busy town
That sounded proud to stand.
Bickering,
Singing,
In a stench of waste and wine,
Conditions in which
My own people would wine.


In a market of sorts,
I met my friend Leonardo,
Who sought about
With his pet cat Lombardo.
Rags,
Candle sticks,
He would aimlessly buy,
We greeted with smiles
As we passed each other by.


“Sono Signor da Vinci.”
He said through his beard,
The richest voice
That I had heard.
I assisted,
And learned,
In his bizarre eye,
And found he had a far
Sharper brain than I.


The man insisted that he
Could soar without wings,
And each day took part
In the most peculiar things.
“It is finished!”
“It is ruined!”
His passions were so great,
I could feel his frustrations,
And hear his teeth grate.


Then once,
With no mind,
I grinned at his temper,
Which made him glare-
The strongest one I remember.
But, he paused, and said
“Mona Lisa, give another?”
And I smiled once more as he lead.


Now in museums,
People crowd by the wall,
They notice my face,
And they tremble and fall.
“Her eyes!”
“Her hair!”
I always draw in a line,
Of inquiring tourists
Who struggle to align.


Now try as I might,
Though I had upfront sight,
His brilliance was too complex to site
On paper,
In art,
His soul,
It dripped
From every pore
And sought to touch
The mind much more
Than any genius
Known before.

Clear, glimmering, white.

His hand claims the sequined waist
That he earned to hold with jewells.

Cut, polished, sewn.

The chandelier above emanates
The ones hung from her ears.

Strung, tied, boxed.

Not as much a girl's best friend
As a man's trophy wife ticket.

Bought, gifted, worn.

My Words are daggers on my tongue,
But liquid through my pen.
Conviction pies only in ink
That soaks a pleasing blend.

What mouth can electrify more
Than six words on a sheet,
Delicately carved in minds
To fuel a hearts each beat?

I'll paint designs on homely scars
To make my children weep,
And make self pity sound like songs,
Like wolves hid among sheep.

These tales are filled with elegance,
But only from intent.
Delivered are my past regrets;
My own way to repent.

This isn't what he imagined,
The sky was supposed to be blue.
And his friends were sure to stick
With him and walk with him right on through.

Yet there he was left standing,
Left alone to find his way.
"Once you cross the bridge,
You'll never return!"
Mother would always say.

His finger bleeds from the roses,
The road covered in
Needles and thorns.
Why didn't his friends greet him
As much as they did before?

He meant to have so much joy
On the other side of the bridge.
But now he must venture
Through the trees
And find how he must live.

Know you are worth millions because
You breathe, but do not feel entitled.
          The scraps of mud I give you
          You must turn into gold.
Treat yourself as a king,
But do not ask for a castle.
          I wanted you for no exchange,
          But you must repay me 'til death.
You are the sun and moon
Until you cannot give them to me.
          Praise me because I love you,
          But reject diamonds you deserve

Always mistake my greed for warmth,
Never ask, but know all remedies,
Proudly wear my faults on your back,

And your gut and mind do not speak
When I'm the one in authority.
          Now come, sit, tell me what you
          feel?